Irene's Aria
by InkFairy
Summary: A rainy afternoon at 221B Baker Street. Irene's bored, Watson's trying to get some work done, but Holmes is the only one being productive. OneShot.


**Disclaimer: I don't own anything but a silly little dream….**

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Irene Adler gazed listlessly out the window of 221B Baker Street, watching as the rain slowly turned the streets into rivers of mud.

"Now I remember why I never visit London in November. This weather is unbearable." She turned to her companion. "Italy is wonderful this time of year."

Dr. John Watson didn't look up from the notebook he was perusing. "Forget it. Holmes will never leave London unless the pope himself asks him to search for the gates of heaven, and even then, I wouldn't be so sure."

Irene reached for the stack of letters that had arrived for Holmes in the mail and began to sort through them.

"I never thought life with Holmes could get so _dull_." She committed an envelope to the fire without opening it. It exploded with a flash of green as the substance inside it, a little trap undoubtedly meant for Holmes, reacted to the heat of the flames. "And to think I could have married an earl," Irene sighed. "People would be calling me 'Lady Irene,' and I'd be squandering 20,000 pounds a year and —"

"And then you're _really_ be bored," Watson predicted, frowning over the array of notebooks splayed on the desk before him.

"Because nothing is more exciting than playing secretary for a doctor-turned-writer and a detective-turned-composer."

Irene paused for a moment so that Watson could fully appreciate the scratching of Holmes's violin in the next room.

He winced. "How long has he been at that?"

"Ever since he solved his last case three weeks ago." She slit open an envelope with unnecessary violence.

"My condolences for your loss of hearing."

"You're simply thankful it isn't yours."

"There is that, too." Watson admitted, pulling a blank piece of paper toward him. "Though as a doctor, I must say his scratching on that old thing is much better than injecting cocaine, smoking opium and drinking himself to death."

"For him, perhaps. Not me," Irene sniffed. "Honestly, if I have to listen to that for much longer, I might seriously consider going back to some old habits." She flexed her nimble fingers threateningly.

Automatically, one of Watson's hands shot to his breast pocket to make sure his pocketbook was still there while the other hand went to his waistcoat to assure the presence of his watch.

Irene watched him go through these motions with amusement. "If I could be sure Holmes wouldn't hand me over to Lestrade, I'd try my hand at the crown jewels just to give him a case, but it doesn't seem worth the trouble. Nevertheless, I think I'll just leave him to his genius and —"

"Oh, please, Irene." She glared at him. Watson insisted on pronouncing her name in the British way, articulating the accessory 'e' with particular stress. "You would reject half a dozen dukes with 50,000 a year for Holmes."

"And he knows it too, which is quite a shame." Irene sighed again as she crumpled up a letter and tossed it over Watson's head and into the fire. "Whatever shall I do, Johnn_y_?"

Before Watson could protest his new nickname, the doors to the adjoining room slammed opened, causing him to jump and upset a jar of ink on the desk. Irene quickly tossed a rag at the growing pool of liquid, stopping it from dripping onto Watson's clothes.

"It is finished," Sherlock Holmes announced dramatically, standing in the doorway with violin and bow in one hand and a sheaf of ink-splattered paper in the other.

"You needn't announce everything like it's the end of the world," Watson said, wadding up the ruined paper and pitching it into the fire. "I cannot for the life of me understand how Irene tolerates —"

"You know what they say about the pot calling the kettle black," Irene said serenely. She turned to her husband. "You were saying, Sherry?"

Watson's attempt not to laugh failed utterly. Holmes approached her with a withering glare.

"Woman, I wish you would not persist in addressing me by such an undignified moniker —"

"Oh don't take that haughty tone with me, Holmes —"

"You forget," Watson interjected. "She could have married an earl with 20,000 a year, and yet she settled for you. You should be eternally grateful."

"I have an exceptionally good memory. There is no need for both of you to remind me of that fact daily," Holmes said, rummaging in a corner of the room. "Might _I_ remind _you_ that a princess was once so grateful for the services I rendered her royal family that — had I been so minded — you would be referring to me now as 'King Sherlock'?"

"Indeed?" Watson questioned skeptically. "I don't seem to recall —"

"It was before your time, old boy."

"How convenient," Watson said, sharing an amused glance with Irene. "What was her name again, Holmes?

"It really isn't significant —"

"On the contrary, I should like to know the particulars of this potential rival of mine," Irene said.

"As soon as you give me the name of the peer with 20,000 a year who made you an offer," Holmes countered.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly — for his sake, you understand," Irene demurred. "We all know you could have him accused of a crime and locked up in Scotland Yard by suppertime."

Holmes emerged from his junk pile with a badly bent and lopsided music stand. This he placed in front of Irene, placed the papers he was holding on it, took Irene by the hand to raise her from her seat and gestured to the sheet music with a flourish and a bow.

"Mrs. Holmes, if you please. Watson," he rapped his friend smartly with his bow, "you will turn the pages."

"A surprise concert," Watson said with feigned enthusiasm. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"My dear Watson, for several years I suffered the torture of listening to that God-awful racket you call singing. Please allow Irene Holmes, née Adler, former prima donna of the Imperial Opera of Warsaw, to instruct you on the proper use of vocal chords."

"Any torture you suffered from my singing was nothing compared to the agony I suffered from listening to the infernal grating of your violin," Watson snapped, flicking the inky rag at Holmes.

Watson ducked as Holmes retaliated, jabbing at him with the violin bow and nearly taking out Watson's eye. Not to be outdone, Watson grabbed his walking stick and was halfway through unsheathing its hidden blade when Irene, with a roll of her eyes, cleared her throat and began singing without further ceremony, cutting their duel short.

Holmes seamlessly picked up the accompaniment. For the next ten minutes, the rooms of 221B Baker Street were completely silent save for the notes issuing from Holmes' much-abused violin and Irene's clear, strong voice. Watson could not help admiring both the beauty of his best friend's composition and the balance and compatibility of singer and violinist.

Though Irene's countenance was one of concentration as she sang through the unfamiliar work, Holmes' expression was one Watson had never seen before. For the man who took note of everything, only Irene and the music existed for Holmes in this moment. There was something incredibly intimate about the situation that made Watson feel as if he were the most tactless of intruders.

As the last note faded away, with Holmes' violin and Irene's voice in perfect harmony, Watson applauded.

"Brava, Irene," he said sincerely. "The stage certainly suffered a crippling loss when you quit it." He glanced at Holmes. "It'll do, I suppose . . . for an amateur."

"It's beautiful, Sherlock," Irene said, fixing the sheet music with an almost reverential hand. "I fear I didn't do it half the justice it deserved."

"You're the only justice it deserves." Slightly shocked by the intensity of his tone, Irene looked up at him and was drawn into a gaze that matched his voice. Without breaking eye contact, Holmes produced another sheet out of nowhere and placed it on the stand

"'Irene's Aria,'" she read aloud, sinking onto the sofa next to him. She caught his hand before he could pull away. "Holmes, you can't name it that. It should be Sherlock's Sonata, if anything."

"Sherlock's Sonata would sound entirely different," he said dismissively. "If it gives you any consolation, I seriously considered naming it 'Woman's Aria,' though it didn't have quite the same ring to it."

"You must get this printed," she proclaimed. "Watson's publisher I'm sure would take it."

Holmes raised their clasped hands and placed an overly gallant kiss on the back of hers. "It's yours, my dear. Do what you will with it, only don't change the name." He dropped her hand and reached over to take the letter that lay abandoned on the desk beside her. "Do I sense a new case?" He took advantage of their proximity to drop a kiss on her cheek as well.

"Now that you're done being a tortured artist, Holmes, do apply yourself to your razor," she advised, rubbing her cheek where his rough one had contacted. "Your bath's already drawn, though I daresay it's ice cold now."

"And don't spend all afternoon turning into a prune," Watson added. "Mary is expecting us for dinner."

"Yes, nannies," he mocked, jumping to his feet and grabbing a sandwich from the lunch tray. "Of course, woman, if you do get my opus published, I expect to receive the profits, whether it is named for your thieving self or not."

And on that rather unromantic note, Holmes disappeared to take his bath.

"I suppose that means I should start making a fresh copy to take to your publisher," Irene said, eyeing critically the splotches of ink and numerous cross-outs that decorated the sheets of music.

Watson opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a stack of lined paper. He placed this, his newly sharpened pen and the now half empty inkpot in front of her. He watched as she carefully began to copy Holmes' music, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

"What is it?" she finally asked exasperatedly, not looking up from her task.

"Oh, nothing," Watson said lightly, turning away. "I just never thought I'd live to see the day Irene Adler played happy housewife for Sherlock Holmes."

"You really want to lose an eye today, don't you?"

Watson ignored her threat, though the way she was wielding his pen was making him distinctly nervous. "Not many could still be happy after exchanging 50,000 a year and being called 'my lady' for a consulting detective's salary and the rather dubious designation of 'Woman.'" He leaned forward conspiratorially. "And you are _shamelessly _happy, Mrs. Holmes, whatever you say to the contrary."

"Dr. Watson, I sacrificed those earthly possessions for the sake of humanity," Irene said solemnly. "If Holmes had married that poor, imaginary princess, one can only imagine the extent of King Sherlock's reign of terror."

Despite efforts on both their parts to maintain serious expressions, Watson and Irene dissolved into helpless laughter. Holmes, soaking in a lukewarm bath the floor above, deduced quite correctly that their joy was being made at his expense. After a moment's contemplation, he concluded that he could bear the cost.

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And, if you're so inclined, check out my thoughts on the Sherlock Holmes movie at **http:// motivationonvacation. blogspot. com /2010/01/5-reasons-why-sherlock-holmes-was-great. html** (remove spaces).


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